


Cold Fucking Place

by IAmANonnieMouse



Series: Nash Fics for Flos [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, Nash swears a lot, Post-Canon, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26668639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: Robert hisses and his grip on Nash’s shoulders tightens. "When I was a boy, my father hired some people. They hooked me up to a weird machine and did some stuff, and when it was over, dad said I was safe from people who would try to steal information out of my mind. I thought he was crazy, so I forgot about it for a while." He leans in closer, and Nash can feel his confusion turn to anger and hurt andfear."What do you do for a living?" Robert asks again.And Nash meets his eyes and takes a breath and says, "I steal information out of people's minds."
Relationships: Robert Fischer/Nash
Series: Nash Fics for Flos [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928443
Comments: 12
Kudos: 11





	Cold Fucking Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/gifts).



> Sequel to [Fucking Feelings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519542). This takes place after Arthur shows up at Nash's place, but before the final text conversation between Robert and Nash about wedding invites.
> 
> Dedicated to Flos who left me this in a comment: _does he tell Fischer he was incepted??? Is their relationship based on lies????? IS THERE ANGST IN THEIR FUTURE?????????? IS THIS A BLATANT ATTEMPT TO BAIT YOU INTO MORE FICS??????????????????_  
>  Yes, it was blatant, but lucky for you, I'm very easily baited! :smooch:

Nash can measure the amount of somnacin in his system based on how well he sleeps. 

When he's fresh off a job and the chemicals are still flushing out of his system, he curls up next to Robert and sleeps like a baby. Best side effect ever, eliminating natural dreams.

But when it's been a while, and the somnacin isn't messing with his brain waves anymore, he gets nightmares.

That’s expected. Not every job is a happy one. Nash has killed and been killed so many times that nightmares are a given, really. 

What’s unexpected is that Robert gets nightmares, too. 

It's ridiculous, actually, how long it takes him to figure out Robert has bad dreams. Add in the extra months after _that_ before Nash realizes what the dreams are about, and...well. Nash knows he isn't a _perfect_ boyfriend, but he used to think he was average, at least. Just-barely passing, unmemorable but acceptable.

What a fucking riot.

Nash gets his lightbulb moment after a particularly gruesome nightmare. It’s a trip down memory lane, featuring all the ways he's died in dreams. And because his subconscious has a horrible sense of humor, it runs like a Top Ten Moments YouTube video. 

At number five—Dismemberment by an Angry Mob—he wakes up, gasping for breath. 

He squints at the clock. It's three in the morning. He sighs and rubs his hands over his face and throat, letting the sensation ground him.

 _Fuck me,_ he thinks.

"Bad dream?" Robert asks.

Nash jumps. "Fuck, sweetheart, did I wake you up?"

The sheets move, and an arm wraps around Nash's waist, pulling him back until he's pressed against Robert's chest. They tangle their legs together, and Robert presses his forehead between Nash's shoulder blades. 

"No," Robert says. "I was already awake. Guess it's a bad night for dreams."

Nash pulls Robert's arm tighter around him. "Want to talk about it? I heard that makes them go away faster."

"Who told you that, your mother?"

"No, she told me to suck it up, Nashy, and go back to sleep."

Robert chuckles. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“It’s, uh.” Nash rubs a hand over his face again. “Sometimes things go bad on jobs. My dream was that. All the bad shit.”

Robert hums. He’s never asked what Nash does for a living, and Nash has never told him. Nash feels guiltier some days than others, but he’s never felt so guilty he told the truth about any of it.

“What about you?” Nash asks. “Your dream?”

“It’s weird,” Robert says. There's a hitch in his breath before weird, quiet enough that most people wouldn’t notice. But Nash has gotten skilled at reading between the lines of Robert’s silences. 

"You don't have to tell me, Rob. It’s okay.”

They lie in bed quietly, long enough that Nash thinks Robert isn't going to say anything. Then:

"I was in Sydney when my father died.” The words come out in a whisper. “I had to fly to L.A. for the funeral. I've made that flight so many times. It takes forever. But on that flight...I don't remember anything. It's this big gap. I remember boarding. Ordering a drink. The guy behind me asked about my father. And then it's like I blinked, and we were landing in L.A. already."

Nash stills. _No,_ he thinks. _Fuck, please, no._

Arthur's visit still lingers at the back of his mind, along with the bombshell that he'd left in the middle of the threats and anger and ring suggestions. 

Nash, being Nash, had bought the ring Arthur suggested, then pushed everything else aside to deal with later. Maybe never. But it fucking figures that the universe has other plans. 

"Ever since then," Robert says, "I've been having these dreams. I'm catching a cab in the rain, and some other guy is there, too. Then someone starts shooting at us, and it's just...chaos. And then I'm at some hotel bar, trying to get a girl's number, and a guy tells me he's my head of security. But it's not Brax. I have no idea who he is."

A shiver works its way down Nash's spine.

"And there's snow. So much snow, fucking everywhere. And my dad, sometimes. A van? Uncle Peter? I think we get kidnapped at one point? It's...god, it's just so confusing."

"That's what's overwhelming," Nash guesses. "The chaos."

"No. That’s…I dream that stuff most nights. I've gotten used to it."

"Then what's the bad part?"

Robert hesitates and kisses Nash’s shoulder. "There's a woman. She ties me up. Puts me on a balcony in this crumbling city. She's got a knife, and she keeps saying, 'Don't worry. He'll be here soon.' There's a storm, like a hurricane or tornado, I don't know. And talking about it now, it's not a natural storm, but in the dreams it feels so…so _real_ , you know?"

"I know," Nash whispers.

"And then someone shoves me off the balcony. I fall fifteen stories. And _that,_ " Robert says with a humorless laugh, "is what always wakes me up. Falling."

Nash swallows. Call him an asshole, but he was counting locations while Robert talked. Dream levels. _Holy shit,_ he thinks. _Those fuckers pulled off a four-level dream._

Robert stiffens behind him. "What did you just say?"

Nash freezes. "What?"

Robert pulls away then shoves Nash back onto the mattress. He looms over him on all fours and Nash thinks semi-hysterically that in any other context this would be sexy as fuck.

"Those fuckers pulled off a four-level dream," Robert recites. He tilts his head and stares down at him. There’s just enough light shining in the window for Nash to see the confusion in Robert's eyes. The awareness, as things start to fall in place.

"What do you do for a living, Nash?" he asks, voice silky soft. "I've never asked. I thought, 'Just give him time. He'll tell you when he's ready.' But we've been dating almost a year now. And don't think it's escaped me that you know everything about me, and I don't even know your mother's name."

"It's Cheryl," Nash says. "She's a bitch, end of story." 

Robert hisses and his grip on Nash’s shoulders tightens. "When I was a boy, my father hired some people. They hooked me up to a weird machine and did some stuff, and when it was over, dad said I was safe from people who would try to steal information out of my mind. I thought he was crazy, so I forgot about it for a while." He leans in closer, and Nash can feel his confusion turn to anger and hurt and _fear._ "What do you do for a living?" Robert asks again.

And Nash meets his eyes and takes a breath and says, "I steal information out of people's minds."

The words hit Robert like a fucking freight train. He leans back, eyes wide, chest heaving. 

The silence between them is damning.

"I didn't know how to tell you," Nash says. "I mean, how the fuck do you tell people you break into people's minds through their dreams? Huh?"

"You told me once you're an architect," Robert whispers. "And I thought it was weird. An architect who never built anything."

"I build things," Nash says, voice breaking. "I build skyscrapers and fortresses and entire fucking _cities._ ”

"In dreams," Robert says.

Nash nods. "In dreams."

Robert nods. Breathes. "Freelance," he says. "I guess that makes sense, too. It's not like criminals work out of offices."

Nash can feel something breaking, crumbling, between them, but he doesn't know how to stop it.

"What did you do to me?" Robert asks. "On that flight to L.A.?"

Nash reaches for him, but Robert pushes his hand away. 

"I wasn't on that job," Nash says. "Everything I said to you that night in the bar was true, Rob. I swear. I fucked up a job, dreamshare cut me out. I didn't know anyone had done _anything_ to you until a few weeks ago."

"You had a job a few weeks ago," Robert says. He's still straddling Nash's hips, but he's so distant he may as well be sitting in a boardroom. "Did you all stand around and chuckle over coffee?"

Nash shakes his head wordlessly. "Sweetheart—"

"Don't fucking call me that."

Nash tries again. "One of the guys who did the job. Who was on the plane with you. He hunted me down when he saw we were dating. Wanted to make sure I wasn't trying to fuck with him somehow."

"Pull the other one, babe." Robert climbs out of bed, puts on some clothes, then walks out of their bedroom without another fucking word.

Nash hesitates for a long, painful moment, then pushes himself out of bed. He finds Robert in the kitchen, pouring a healthy amount of Scotch into a glass.

"So what did they steal from me?" Robert asks, back turned. "I still have all my money. Nobody's leaked any information."

Nash steps closer. "Rob."

Robert lets out a laugh that is dangerously close to a sob. "Oh, don't stop now, babe. We were just getting to the good stuff." He takes a healthy sip of the alcohol and slams the glass back onto the counter. 

"They didn't steal anything.”

“Then why were they there?”

Nash closes his eyes. “They…”

“They?”

“They planted something in your mind."

Robert finishes his drink and puts the glass down. “What did they plant?” he asks, taking a large sip directly from the bottle. 

"The guy who hired them," Nash says, forcing the words out, "wanted you to dissolve Fischer Morrow."

Robert freezes. This silence is one Nash has never heard before. But then Robert speaks, and his words are even worse.

"All my life, I've been a disappointment. I spent decades trying to be worthy of inheriting my father’s empire. Remember what I said to you that one time? That I was actually _relieved_ when he died, because at least I couldn’t disappoint him anymore?”

“Rob.”

“Well, it’s good to know that I was wrong.” He lets out a bark of laughter. “I can still disappoint him, even when he’s dead and buried.”

“Sweethea—”

“I _said,_ ” Robert shouts, “don’t _fucking_ call me that.”

Nash takes a trembling breath.

“God,” Robert sighs, letting out another sobbing laugh. “The one thing in my worthless _fucking_ life that I was ever proud of. And it was a fucking lie.”

"It wasn't all a lie," Nash whispers. "They didn't force you to create a successful company on your own. They didn't give you the brains to get a business off the ground. They didn’t—"

Robert grabs his empty glass and tosses it in the sink. "God, just shut up!” he shouts. "I don't want to hear another word out of your lying fucking mouth."

He snatches the bottle of Scotch off the counter and runs out of the room. There are tearstains on his cheeks.

Nash cleans up the broken glass. He pours himself a glass of water. He takes a moment, just a little one, to list everything he hates about himself right now. And then he heads back into the bedroom.

Robert has Nash's suitcase open on the bed, and he's throwing clothes into it.

"Call one of your criminal buddies," Robert says without looking up. "You better hope they have a fucking couch."

So Nash takes the suitcase, and his phone, charger, and wallet, and walks out the door. 

Robert doesn't ask for his keys back. But it's a small consolation.

After all, locks can be changed.

*

Here's the thing about loneliness. It creeps up on you, slowly, quietly, until you’re suffocating and you don’t know why. It’s like a wet blanket over your shoulders. It gives you chills, but you clutch it closer anyway, because it’s all you’ve got and you, lonely fuck that you are, still have this ridiculous hope that someday it’ll start to warm you. 

And you get used to it, eventually. The cold. The chills. 

Nash had gotten really fucking comfortable with his stupid, soggy, wet blanket. And then he met Robert, and it was like a warm comforter, a bowl of soup, and even fluffy fucking slippers for his dirty fucking feet. It was heaven. Everything Nash could’ve ever wished for.  
But now, when the warmth is gone and his feet are bare again, and he’s curled up under his stupid, soggy, wet blanket, it feels colder, and heavier, and harsher. 

Because now he knows what it’s like to live without it.

*

Nash flies out of Australia. He ends up in Denmark, because he asked the lady at the counter for the first ticket she had available. 

But his German is shit, and he’s only got fifty bucks in Australian dollars, and fuck, he misses Robert so fucking much.

He catches another plane, then another. He bounces between countries, crosses oceans, and eventually ends up in California.

It’s been weeks now. Robert hasn’t called or texted once.

Nash puts out feelers and manages to track Arthur down to a cafe he frequents in L.A. He stalks the place for days before Arthur makes an appearance, calm and put together and in a pristine three-piece suit. 

It reminds Nash of Robert, the night they met in that skeevy bar. 

Nash parks his ass in the seat across from Arthur, and shoves his suitcase onto the other empty chair.

Arthur sips his coffee and arches a brow at him. “Can I help you?”

A thousand words crowd Nash’s tongue. _Yes_ and _fuck you_ and _it fucking kills me to say this but I need your help_.

“Yeah,” he ends up saying. “Do you have a couch?”

*

Arthur’s couch sucks for sleeping. It’s hard and uncomfortable and practically fresh out of the box. Nash can’t even see a butt dent in the fabric. 

“Do you ever do anything besides work?” he asks Arthur the following morning. They’re seated at the kitchen table. Nash is trying to work the cricks out of his neck while halfheartedly eating some cereal he found buried in the back of Arthur’s cabinets. Arthur is eating something disgustingly healthy-looking.

“Yes. Why?”

“Your couch isn’t broken in yet.”

Arthur nods. “It’s new. Eames ruined my old one.”

“What did he do?”

Arthur shoots him a look. “How long are you planning to stay here and mope?”

“I’m not moping, he kicked me out!”

“And you’ve done so much to make him forgive you.” Arthur shakes his head. “Did you end up buying him a ring?”

“Yeah. The one you said.”

“Did he like it?”

Nash slurps his cereal. 

“You never asked him.”

Nash shakes his head. “It’s sitting in the sock drawer.”

“Original.”

Nash wants to slap Arthur over the head, but he knows Arthur would probably kill him for it.

Still. It’s nice to dream.

*

Nash: _Rob, I’m sorry. Please let me explain?_

Nash: _I swear to you, I had no idea they incepted you until we’d been together for months._

Nash: _Okay, yes, I lied to you, but only about my job. Nothing else._

Nash: _I love you. That’s not a lie._

*

Nash stays with Arthur for two weeks. He slowly starts to wear a dent in the fabric of the new couch and texts Robert every day. 

“Alright,” Arthur finally says, “if you’re gonna be such a sorry sack, you might as well be drunk for it.” He pulls out a bottle of whiskey.

Nash sits up. “You’re on.”

*

Nash: _look im an asshole but you knew that ok?_

Nash: _and im sorry some people broke into your brain and stuck shit in there, and im sorry youre hurting, but im not the asshole that did that to you, rob_

Nash: _and i miss you so fucking much, it isnt even funny_

Nash: _i was totally fucking fine with my soggy fucking blanket, but no, you had to come along and make me feel warm_

Nash: _and you know what? it fucking sucks sweetheart because the worlds a cold fucking place when youre not around_

Nash: _fuck im not supposed to call you sweetheart anymore im sorry_

Nash: _i just_

Nash: _i miss you_

Nash: _i want to come home_

Nash: _can we talk at least?_

Nash: _ill tell you anything you want_

Nash: _anything_

Nash: _you can even meet my fucking mother if you want_

Nash: _but i think that would make you dump me for real_

Nash: _can you please say something_

Nash: _are you okay_

Robert: _I found the ring._

Robert: _Where are you?_

Robert: _When you’re sober and see this, call me. Please? I don’t care what time it is._

*

They talk. Nash tells Robert everything—how he got into dreamshare, what he does in the team, what kind of jobs he takes. He tells Robert about the Cobol fuckup, about how Saito’s men tracked him down afterwards and locked him in a dark room and made him talk. He tells Robert how Saito twisted the story, said that Nash ratted out his team. He tells Robert about backpacking through Europe, depressed as all fuck, hanging out in shitty bars and playing pool to pass the time.

He talks about what he felt, when he saw Robert for the first time, and what he thought, when they texted about stupid shit. He shares how fucking scared he was when he realized what was happening between them, and how nervous and guilty and fucking _horrified_ he was after Arthur showed up at his door.

And Robert listens. He lets Nash talk and talk and _talk,_ and then when Nash is done, when he’s flopped on Arthur’s uncomfortable couch with his hangover still hanging over him, Robert begins to speak.

He tells Nash about the newest quarterly report for his new enterprise. He shares his ideas for what to do next, how to make his business grow and expand and prosper. His voice washes over Nash like a gentle touch, and if Nash closes his eyes, he can almost imagine he’s lying in bed and Robert is speaking directly into his ear.

Then Robert pauses, and Nash can’t help his smile. He knows this silence. He hasn’t heard it for months and months, since they first started dating.

“I love you,” Nash says, because that’s the most important thing. “And I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be,” Robert says. “I…” He sighs. “You know me. I always wanted to do what my father wanted. And it seemed so special to me, that branching out and making my own way would make him happy. So when you told me about the…”

“Inception.”

“Yeah. That. It just felt like I had disappointed my father all over again. Because if that wasn’t what he wanted, then I had just destroyed the one thing he loved in his entire life. His company. But then, I was thinking about it. You know, when I wasn’t missing you.”

Nash smiles.

“And I realized that I shouldn’t dedicate my entire life to doing what my father wanted. I should do what I want. Maybe even what _we_ want. My father’s been dead for over a year. And I’ve been living like he’s still alive.”

“Rob,” Nash says.

“Sweetheart,” Robert interrupts. “Call me sweetheart again.”

“Sweetheart,” Nash says, and he can’t stop the softness in his voice. “You’re an incredibly talented man. And I don’t give a flying fuck if starting your own business was something that your father wouldn’t have wanted. Because guess what? You’re fucking fantastic at it.”

Robert chuckles. “I’ve missed you and your f-bombs.”

“I missed you, too,” Nash says.

“Where are you?”

“L.A.”

“Come home?”

And Nash smiles and sighs happily and says, “Always, sweetheart.”

*

Robert has dinner waiting when Nash gets home, twenty hours later. They sit and eat, then afterwards, they curl up together on Robert’s extremely comfortable couch and watch a movie.

It’s so fucking perfect Nash could die.

Later, much later, they go into their bedroom, and Robert gently pushes Nash down on the bed. “Don’t move,” he says, pressing a light kiss to his lips. He stands and goes to the sock drawer and pulls out a small jewelry box.

Nash pushes himself up to his elbows. “Rob—”

“When were you going to ask me?” Robert asks with a smile.

“I don’t know,” Nash admits. “I wasn’t sure if you would say yes.”

Robert puts the box down and climbs onto the bed, gently lowering himself on top of Nash. “Don’t ask me yet,” he says with a smile. “I want to know everything about you first. _Then_ I’ll say yes.”

“Everything?” Nash asks, wrapping an arm around Robert’s shoulders. “Like what?”

Robert hums. “Like, the place you were born. Your favorite color. Your least favorite coworker in dream crime?”

Nash laughs and pulls him in closer. “A tiny town in Idaho. Yellow. This cocky fucker named Chad. Anything else, sweetheart?”

“Maybe later,” Robert says, and he kisses Nash breathless.

*

Nash: _Robert says he forgives you for breaking into his brain_

Arthur: _Okay._

Arthur: _I was really worried about that._

Nash: _You’re welcome._

Arthur: _For what? Breaking in my couch?_

Nash: _Shut up. What’s your preferred mailing address?_

Arthur: _For what?_

Nash: _Invitations_

Arthur: _No._

Nash: _If you don’t tell me, I’ll send it to your L.A. address._

Arthur: _Is this your attempt at blackmail?_

Arthur: _Why was I ever worried?_

Nash: _Fuck you_

Nash: _You’re getting an invite whether you want it or not_

Arthur: _Fine. I’ll email you. Now stop blowing up my phone. Some of us have to work for a living._

Nash: _Just for that, I’m putting you down with a plus one_

Nash: _Don’t even think of skipping, Rob really wants to meet you_

Nash: _okay?_

_Delivery failure._

Nash: _Very funny_

_Delivery failure._


End file.
